When I was twelve, I believed in myself.
When I was twelve, I thought I could become an astronaut. Houdini. A CEO or a fireman.
When I was twelve, boys had cooties. That was OK, though.
When I was twelve, my friendships were real. They were intimate, confiding.
When I was twelve, my parents knew what they were doing. I trusted them. I knew that if anything bad happened, it would all come out OK, eventually.
When I was twelve, everything felt wonderful, new, exciting, real. The colors of my rainbow were bright primaries. My passions were deep and when I went to bed at night, I fell into my technicolor dreams with no pause to fret about the vagaries of another day.
When I was twelve, my body was supple.
When I was twelve, relationships were simple.
When I was twelve… I liked being twelve.
Why did I grow up???
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Previously published on medium
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Photo credit: on iStock
